


“Big Blue Eyes and Tangled Wings”

by ErisandraNoir



Series: A Love Story Between An Angel And A Demon [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: But Aziraphale is not any better than Crowley, Crowley is Awkward at telling Aziraphale he loves him, Crowley loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Eventual Romance, Falling In Love, Fluff, Happy Ending, Love, M/M, Multi, Other, Romance, Shyness, They deserve a happy ending, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 12:03:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13189686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErisandraNoir/pseuds/ErisandraNoir
Summary: I apologize if it is not 100% accurate in terms of the "snow" mentioned here with regards to London. I know and have heard that it does not snow much in London and thus I decided that this particular fic would have happened during the time when London had heavy snowfall.Pardon me for the inaccuracy.





	“Big Blue Eyes and Tangled Wings”

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize if it is not 100% accurate in terms of the "snow" mentioned here with regards to London. I know and have heard that it does not snow much in London and thus I decided that this particular fic would have happened during the time when London had heavy snowfall. 
> 
> Pardon me for the inaccuracy.

_She's got big brown eyes and tangled hair_  
_Voguing in her underwear_  
_And nothing is better than doing nothing together now_  
_She's got a toothbrush as a microphone_  
_Belting out the Rolling Stones_  
_I'm the last one to stop her_  
_Can't believe that I got her_

_We get so close, kissing like Eskimos_  
_It's a little bit much_  
_I know, I do_

_Isn't she cra-crazy beautiful_  
_Isn't she stra-strange and wonderful_  
_And I think I love her more than I even understand_

If Crowley were to be completely honest with himself (and yes he really does try his best to do so because what is the point in lying to oneself?), he is not fond of the word _love_ (or of the word ‘ _fond_ ’ for that matter, even). He can honestly (again) say he even loathed the word greatly. What with him being cast out of Heaven and being perpetually pulled away from the Father’s Grace and Love. Because once an angel falls, he is cut off eternally and completely from the Holy Presence of The Almighty God.

 

Crowley never liked the idea of love once he became a demon, for how could it be beautiful to someone like him when his own Creator cast him out of his home; technically his own Father! For all their melodic preaching and singing of forgiveness and love up there in Heaven, there _is_ such a thing as Eternal Damnation for one such as him. Thus, he never quite appreciated the idea of _loving_ and _being loved_ in return. Sure, he believes it’s here, there and everywhere. After all, when one has lived a long, long time and has seen many great things to prove that it truly does exist, it would be quite difficult not to believe in its undeniable existence. However, Crowley thinks it does not exist _for him_.

 

Until now.

 

Meeting Aziraphale in The Garden of Eden was quite the coincidence (though Aziraphale would have insisted it to be a fated meeting; ineffability and all that), if he does say so himself. He never meant to seek him out or anything, he was simply just slithering by in his “other form” and he just happened to cross the angel after he was done with his successful job of tempting Eve and was disinterestedly loitering about the place out of sheer boredom. He never meant to approach the angel from where he was seated, he never meant to startle the angel out of his thoughts, he never meant to begin a slightly-friendly conversation with him, he never meant to look at him, he never meant to stick around, he never meant to take shade under the angel’s wings as the water began its first ever downpour from the grey clouds above them and he certainly never meant to _befriend_ the white winged man-shaped being.

 

He smiled softly at the vivid memory playing back in his mind like an old recorded video tape. He could distinctly remember the angel wearing his usual soft white skirt, his then-slim upper body bared to the world so that his wings could freely flare open whenever he wished. He sat silently at the base of a rather large tree, his back against one of its massive curled roots, the expression on his face looked thoughtful – contemplative – as if he was pondering on a decision he has either made in the past or will make in the future. His furry eyebrows met in the middle of his forehead, his mouth pressed down into a small, hardly recognizable frown – it was more of a pout, really, now that he thought about it – plastered on his pristine angelic face.

 

It was a fairly nice day that time.

 

All the days had been nice. There had been rather more than seven of them so far, and rain hadn't been invented yet. But clouds massing east of Eden suggested that the first thunderstorm was on its way, and it was going to be a big one.

 

The angel of the Eastern Gate put his wings over his head to shield himself and the serpent near him from the first drops.

"I'm sorry," he said politely. "What was it you were saying?"

"I said, that one went down like a lead balloon," said the serpent.

"Oh. Yes," said the angel, whose name Crowley (or Crawly, as of this time) found out to be Aziraphale.

"I think it was a bit of an overreaction, to be honest," said the serpent. "I mean, first offense and everything. I can't see what's so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil, anyway."

"It must _be_ bad," reasoned Aziraphale, in the slightly concerned tones of one who can't see it either, and is worrying about it, "otherwise you wouldn't have been involved."

"They just said, ‘Get up there and make some trouble’," said the serpent, whose name was Crawly, although he was thinking of changing it now. Crawly, he'd decided, was not _hint._

"Yes, but you're a demon. I'm not sure if it's actually possible for you to do, well, some “good”" said Aziraphale.

"It's down to your basic, you know, nature. Nothing personal, you understand."

"You've got to admit it's a bit of a pantomime, though," said Crawly. "I mean, pointing out the Tree and saying 'Don't Touch' in big letters. Not very subtle, is it? I mean, why not put it on top of a high mountain or a long way off? Makes you wonder what He's really planning."

"Best not to speculate, really," said Aziraphale. "You can't second-guess ineffability, I always say. There's Right, and there's Wrong. If you do Wrong when you're told to do Right, you deserve to be punished. Er."

 

They sat in embarrassed silence, watching the raindrops bruise the first flowers.

Eventually Crawly said, "Didn't you have a flaming sword?"

"Er," said the angel. A guilty expression passed across his face, and then came back and camped there.

"You did, didn't you?" said Crawly. "It flamed like anything."

"Er, well-"

"It looked very impressive, I thought."

"Yes, but, well-"

"Lost it, have you?"

"Oh no! No, not exactly lost, more-"

"Well?"

Aziraphale looked wretched. "If you _must_ know," he said, a trifle testily, "I gave it away."

Crawly stared up at him.

"Well, I had to," said the angel, rubbing his hands distractedly. "They looked so cold, poor things, and she's expecting _already,_ and what with the vicious animals out there and the storm coming up I thought, well, where's the harm, so I just said, look, if you come back there's going to be an almighty row, but you might be needing this sword, so here it is, don't bother to thank me, just do everyone a big favor and don't let the sun go down on you here."

 

He gave Crawly a worried grin.

"That was the best course, wasn't it?"

"I'm not sure it's actually possible for you to do evil," said Crawly sarcastically. Aziraphale didn't notice the tone.

"Oh, I do hope so," he said. "I really do hope so. It's been worrying me all afternoon."

They watched the rain for a while.

"Funny thing is," said Crawly, "I keep wondering whether the apple thing wasn't the right thing to do, as well. A demon can get into real trouble, doing the right thing." He nudged the angel.

"Funny if we both got it wrong, eh? Funny if I did the good thing and you did the bad one, eh?"

"Not really," said Aziraphale.

Crawly looked at the rain.

"No," he said, sobering up. "I suppose not."

 

His reverie was cut short when Aziraphale entered the backroom of the bookstore in a huff. His golden hair had flecks of snow still stuck on them and his chubby cheeks were a bright shade of red despite the fact that he wore ear muffs, a cerulean blue and burgundy red tartan scarf, a thick, heavy looking light brown trench coat, black trousers, and some boots meant to survive a trek in the deep snow that would certainly cover London during the winter seasons. His breath came out in tired puffs as cold white air escaped from in between his snow-reddened lips (which was quite ironic since they do not really need to breathe or anything).

 

“Crowley, dear! I did not know you’d be here! What with the weather looking like it does.” Aziraphale looked surprised.

“How ever did you get here?” He mused.

“I am quite sure you would never allow the Bentley to even so much as be half-buried in snow.”

 

Crowley snorted.

“Of course I would not. I teleported to get here.”

 

Aziraphale stared at him with a slightly apprehensive look. He never was fond of acting so unlike a human. Which is why he rarely ever used his Grace in full strength. Opting to miracle away small, inconsequential things such as dust, dirt, stains; things that a human would not notice to be different or out-of-this-world. Aziraphale led a normally (or at least as normal as an angel can make it) boring lifestyle of _actually_ acting like a real human being. Crowley both detested and admired him for it, for he knew he would never survive living like an _authentic human being_. He felt the need to miracle away things of a larger magnitude, such as teleporting himself to the bookshop for fear of damaging his beloved Bentley and his pristine three-piece Westwood suit of black, red, and white color combination in the ghastly weather outside.

 

“Well, it’s not to say that I am unhappy to see you this find evening, but, what are you doing here, dear boy?” Aziraphale asked in his friendliest tone, giving him a slight teasing smile.

 

Crowley grinned.

“Well, _angel_ , if you insist on knowing, I noticed that since its winter, I wanted to spend some quality time with my friendly neighborhood heavenly being and maybe _tempt_ you to some (bottles of) mulled wine and a various array of fruit tarts while we ourselves _mull_ around in our soon-to-be-alcohol-induced-hazy thoughts before sobering up, calling it a night only to see one another again tomorrow – most probably in St. James Park to feed the ducks during the afternoon before going to The Ritz for dinner – and repeat the same steps we took the night before.”

 

Aziraphale stared at him pointedly.

“Alright. . .” He replied slowly, slightly taken aback with how Crowley openly enumerated their usual meetings.

 

“Is something the matter, angel?” Crowley asked.

Slightly confused on why Aziraphale was giving him a blank look.

 

“Er. Not really. However, I guess I am surprised to realize that what you said _was_ all correct. We really do that, don’t we? The spending time together in St. James Park, The Ritz, the backroom of my bookstore, feeding ducks and all that?” He chuckled shakily.

 

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“Er. Well, yes. We do _all that_. Almost on a daily basis, actually. In case you haven’t noticed. Which is surprising, since we have been doing this for over more than a _few decades_ now, if I am not mistaken.”

 

Aziraphale shook his head.

“No, no! I do realize that. It’s just, it sounds so. . . different hearing all of that enumerated. It’s like hearing the number of books I have amassed through the centuries, it’s different if you just see them every day on the shelves to actually tallying each of their titles verbally, you know.

He paused, as if gauging his next words.

“I guess, I never realized how used we are to one another’s routines and quirks that it has become such a normality for the two of us.” He smiled softly while averting his eyes from Crowley’s piercing golden gaze.

 

“And. . .” Crowley began.

“Is that a bad thing?” He asked quietly.

 

Aziraphale’s head snapped back up and regarded Crowley with wide eyes. And he saw the slight blush on the demon’s cheeks and slight skepticism in his serpentine eyes. The angel beamed wide.

“No. No it’s not a bad thing. In fact. . .” Aziraphale then blushed a deep pink tinting his cheeks.

“I-I like it. Our routine. Our everyday normal routine.” He turned away once more, pouting adorably, trying to hide his embarrassed face.

 

Crowley smiled, the corners of his mouth turning up in a sincere gesture of utter delight at the angel’s words. He allowed his gaze to freely roam the blushing face of the angel before him.

He never quite understood what he saw in the angel. He was not it anyway mention-worthy spectacular or an undeniable stand-out. In fact, come to think of it, Aziraphale was quite boring or maybe just plain _plain._ He was – quite frankly – fat (sorry, I know this was quite harsh), insalubriously obsessed with collecting tomes, original manuscripts of bibles, and whatnot, unhealthily fixated on tea and sweets, unfortunately stuck on a certain era that sported tartan, long trench coats, beige trousers, cufflinks, bowties and suspenders (Crowley shudders), he did not have a lick of sense of self-preservation (whether in front of enemies or humans in general), he was quite naïve despite the fact that he has lived for several millennia (give or take a few centuries) and have amassed quite the knowledge about history and such.

 

And yet.

 

Time and again, Crowley finds himself staring at the angel for all that he was worth. His kind, wise, deeply understanding sky blue eyes that light up at the sight of a rare book (or, GO-, _Someone_ help him he cannot deny, the sight of _him_ ), his soft golden curled-up hair that flapped messily in the gentle breeze, his chubby cheeks that blushed pink when embarrassed, his clean well-manicured nails and hands – that once held a flaming sword to battle – that never once was raised to harm him (well, at least _after_ the Arrangement had been made) but rather to softly caress him whenever the angel wishes to see if he was alright, his lilting, gentle laughter that never sounded harsh or mocking, his saccharine smiles that could bring him down a peg or two (or three, or four, or five) and make him lose focus.

 

Indeed, he certainly did not know what he saw in the angel.

 

But what he did know, is that he found him  _beautiful - crazily_ so _-_ , inside and out.

 

_She's got a classic style that's all her own_  
_Smile you can hear through the telephone_  
_She says she's a rebel, but she's way too sentimental_  
_She's precious even when she's mad_  
_Gets angry and I start to laugh_  
_And I know that it's nothing_  
_She's just pushing my buttons_

_We get so close, kissing like Eskimos_  
_It's a little bit much_  
_I know, I do_

_Isn't she cra-crazy beautiful_  
_Isn't she stra-strange and wonderful_  
_And I think I love her more than I even understand_

_She's a little bit wild, a little bit mad, a little bit uh oh, beautiful_  
_Wild, a little bit bad, a little bit uh oh_  
_And I never could know her too well_  
_Oh, still I never want anyone else_


End file.
